That’s exactly as it should be.
She gets the simple version.
I carry the complicated one, and I’ve made my peace with it, because the complicated one has a picnic table in it, and a truce at Thanksgiving, and an old man ringing an ice cream bell down our street with my daughter beside him.
Last week, Ellie asked me why Grandpa Walter always gets a little quiet when she orders strawberry.
I thought about how to answer.
“Because a long time ago,” I said, “he lost someone who loved strawberry ice cream. And for a long time he thought he’d never get her back.
And then he did.”
“Who was it?”
I pulled my daughter close.
“Me, baby,” I said. “It was me.”
The truck is gone now.
But there’s always strawberry shortcake in two freezers on our street — ours, and Grandpa Walter’s, four blocks away.
